Nighthawks
by pants2match
Summary: It's hit-or-miss, really, whether or not Dave will come in. Either he'll take the day, surround himself in homely comforts, or lock himself in his office, case files up to his eyeballs. As his friend, she's hoping he chooses the first option, but as someone who wants to brood and wallow herself, she's hoping he chooses the second, just so they can do it together for a while.


I've had this in the works for a couple of weeks, but I really wanted to do my original idea justice, so really it was maybe good three spurts of writing to try and get it right, with some editing in between.

—

Damn, I'm gonna miss these sassy motherfuckers being all cute and judgey calls Hotch first, of course. It's hit-or-miss, really, whether or not Dave will come in. Either he'll take the day, surround himself in homely comforts, or lock himself in his office, case files up to his eyeballs. As his friend, she's hoping he chooses the first option, but as someone who wants to brood and wallow herself, she's hoping he chooses the second, just so they can do it together for a while.

Officially, she turned in her badge and gun on Friday — Hotch had gotten her two weeks pushed down to one, and had put her down for sick leave until it went through — so when she reaches the BAU, she's still fiddling with the laminated visitor's badge, alligator clipped to her jeans.

It's late, later than Agent Hotchner should be scheduling meetings, but no one seemed to bat an eye as she signed in downstairs, and either way, worst-case they'd just have to call up to him to confirm that she's here for him and not to blow up the building.

The overhead fluorescents of the BAU were extinguished long ago, and the only two lights on in the unit are coming through the cracks of the blinds in Hotch and Rossi's offices. It's oddly picturesque in a way she can't quite place, but there's something just on the tip of her tongue that encompasses the moment perfectly — the absolute stillness of it; the way the yellow desk lamps pour from the shades, rather than beam out; how the soft thump of her boot heels against the carpet sounds far away, even to her own ears.

She ducks into Hotch's office first, he's left his door cracked open — for both of them, he'd said — and she jokes that his shift is up. He'd driven with her back to Quantico after she'd resigned, hadn't needed to push the subject because she was open, said that she needed to move onto the next chapter of her life, and that chapter didn't take place within the walls of the BAU, or any division of the FBI; that James had offered her a new life just a year ago, and it had scared her, the thought of being a couple again, without their child — like they were somehow rewriting their past, so that he never existed, never left them. And he'd understood, of course he did, and he told her she had as much time as she needed, whatever her final decision.

They shake hands — a near embrace for two people so outwardly stoic — and say their goodbyes. He tells her how glad he's been to have her on his team, how grateful he is that she was assigned to them after Emily's departure, because she was — still is — a perfect fit, and that along with the rest of the team, he will miss her.

He might also mention something about stopping by before she leaves for good. (On some level she wants to, but on almost every other, she just wants to slip away.)

It's a good minute before she continues to Dave's office. She'd wait longer, but the strap of her bag is digging into her shoulder, the weight of it's contents reminding her why she's here.

She knocks twice, just loud enough to get his attention, but not enough to spook him. The soft rustling of paper against paper continues despite her, and she should've known better — though really, the only person that would be knocking on his office door at this hour is Hotch, so you'd think he'd answer.

(Is it possible to have a feminine knock? Or is it just a personal thing, like handwriting or bullet groupings?)

She leans her forehead on the polished wood, breathing deep a moment before she speaks.

"Dave, it's me."

The rustling pauses, then starts up again before he speaks.

"It's unlocked."

Which means that he wasn't going to put up a fight. She's not sure if she's glad or worried.

His door doesn't creak as she'd expected, allowing her to edge into his office silently. There's a haphazard tower of case files either side of him, and a smaller one set behind his laptop, all lined up perfectly as if out of respect of the people he can't seem to help. His office seems almost cozy in the yellow glow of his desk lamp.

He sets the current file down and closes the shell of his laptop before looking up at her. She can't quite make out his facial expression, the desk lamp messing with the deep shadows of his face.

"Nice badge." His voice is low, morose, almost.

"Yeah, it's growing on me."

She sits in one of his visitor's chairs across from him, re-arranging the immediate space in front of her a moment before delving into her bag. He watches her intently, brow furrowing at the clink of glass-against-glass, before she sets the bottle and glasses between them. He should have known. Alex is the one person he's met that can drink him under the table, and he's in no way shocked that this is what they're doing tonight. She'd stayed the night after the wake, — completely innocent and in the guest room — her and Hotch were the last ones left before she insisted he go home, seeing him droop at the prospect of another drink.

He'd never expected to become as close to Alex as he had. When they first met she was a kid. A twenty-five year-old up-and-comer in forensic linguistics with glossy, ash-brown hair, and a bump to match the ultrasound print-off she had tucked beneath her work. She'd been smart, direct, and he wasn't sure if he loved her or hated her because she was him, but twenty years younger and with pins that made him think he'd be a dead man if he ever referred to her legs as that out loud.

Their rapport was almost immediate. He pushed and she pushed back, but more than that, she did it without drawing anyone's attention to it, and that took talent.

The scotch sloshes into the glasses, completely inelegant, and she extends the slightly fuller glass to him.

"So, are we going to talk, or just stick to ambiguity?"

She swirls the drink in her glass a moment before she purses her lips, "I don't know, we could see where the night leads us."

"You've been hanging out with me too much, Alex. Probably for the best you're getting out now before you're speaking in nothing but innuendo." The depth in his voice slices right through her. She's kind of wishing she wasn't leaving straight away, that she'd sat on her decision to leave for a few weeks, but she knows she'd only end up putting it off more and more, and then never leave. She had to do it now. But that meant leaving the same week as the first anniversary.

"I guess." She takes a swig from her glass, downing it quick before she can reconsider. "You know better than anyone else why I have to leave."

"You and James aren't me and Carolyn. We had more issues than just the job."

"So do we." It comes out almost on reflex. Like she has to remind herself, too.

She doesn't know if he remembers her from before she was assigned to the BAU. She remembers him, certainly, but that's mostly because he was David Rossi, Stubborn Jackass back then, too. He was a senior profiler dragged in to an — eventually moot — counterterrorism investigation she was consulting on, and conferred with her many times throughout. What she remembered most, though, was that at the end he'd congratulated her on her pregnancy. She'd been skeptical at first, thinking he was being a snide bastard as the case had gone belly-up (by no fault of her own), but at the look of contempt he'd received, he'd clarified — _On the pregnancy, I mean. It looks good on you._ She'd smiled despite herself, uttering a _thanks_ before straightening the papers on the desk she'd occupied. She'd cursed under her breath when she came upon the sonogram picture she'd left out. She was a young female agent with a hell of a lot to prove, and the last thing her career needed was a baby, which is why she hadn't wanted any senior agents to find out yet, at least until she could do it on her own terms.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Maybe, one day."

He nods, knowing that she's not here for herself, she's here for him and that means a hell of a lot. In the space of two years he'd lost two women he'd loved with everything in him, and now Alex was on her way out, too.

They sit in companionable silence for a good while. Alex pulls the twin visitor's chair up and rests her feet on it, sinking down into the other. She's not leaving this office until he does, so she might as well get comfortable. He's been idly playing with the edges of the stack to his right, flipping the corners of files and pages until they're worn, for a few minutes. They'd talked after the wake, fuelled by immediate grief and copious amounts of various alcohols. She'd told him how grateful she was her and Erin got to make up before—

She and Erin had talked all the way back to the hotel, until there was a lull. After a moment Alex laughed at the silence, unable to hold it in anymore. _So, you and Dave, huh?_ Erin had attempted to keep a straight face, it had been over a decade since they'd talked about anything other than work — since she'd heard her laugh — and it caught her off guard. After so many years you learn to keep a pretty good poker face. Erin tried her best not to give, but as they stopped at a red light Alex had looked over to her, smirking, waiting for Erin's façade to crack. _Yes, me and Dave_. Alex raised her eyebrows. _Jeez, Erin, sleeping with a subordinate. Old hab— _She was cut off by the honk of the cabbie behind them, but both had smiled the rest trip back.

She swings the glass from her thumb and middle finger, watching the liquid slide over the bottom of the bottom of it. He can see the way the soft light reflects off her eyes, shining brighter than they should. She wasn't okay, either.

"Alex…"

She's caught off guard when he speaks. They're both a few glasses — of probably three–four drinks each — deep, and she'd been lost in her own thoughts. She'd been imagining their house in Boston, something perpetually warm, with the same roses lining the front entranceway, and an expansive master-bath, just for the hell of it. Maybe they'd get a dog. A German shepherd or a golden retriever; something with a good nature but also energetic, and not large enough to take up half the bed — because really, having them around to keep you warm and safe is half the point, even if she does have her husband back, who can resist more of that?

"She was really happy that you two were making up," after the initial jolt of her brain switching back over, he can see a soft smile light her face, as if the last eleven years had been taken off it.

"She never told you, did she?" He's confused for a moment, brow furrowed, until he smirks shamelessly back at her, and she knows she's made a mistake. "Well, okay, _that_… But that you made her happy," she tips her head, smiling gently, "really happy."

He mulls over that a moment. No, she'd never really said that. But then neither had he. Sure, they'd said _things_, just nothing so overt or touchy-feely. They'd both been burnt before — hell, they'd lit the match and doused themselves in gasoline more than once — but this was something different.

"There was a time—before things with Colin went south…" she shifts in her seat, pulling the bottle towards her and refilling her glass, then passing the bottle to him, "she looked at you like she—" _used to look at me_, "—like she was really happy. And she was. You may hate to admit it, but you are a good guy, Dave. Good writer, good agent, and from what I could see on Erin's face, good fuck."

He chokes on his scotch, the alcohol burning his throat up through his soft palate and nose. Damn. She's one of a few people that never cease to surprise him — shock him, really — her and Penelope had had him in stitches at the bar after everything with JJ. He'd pay a _lot_ of money to have her and Emily in a room again.

"Too bad, I don't sleep with married women." Alex raises her eyebrows. "Anymore."

"There it is."

He grins at her, like he hasn't got the thought of working here without her hanging over his head. It's all a bit fuzzy now, alcohol and stress-insomnia combined is a blessing in this case. All he's really got on his mind is his immediate surroundings; pillars of yet-to-be-touched case files, good scotch (he can't remember the label, hadn't really cared as he poured it — if it smells like a duck and tastes like a duck…), and even better company.

He's going to miss her. He knows this as a fact, as concrete a statement as "this sky is blue" or "Jeanette threw her ring into the Potomac" (Wife #2, she was just as dramatic as he is, and felt the need to outdo him by hurling her three-thousand dollar engagement ring into the river by the FDR monument. They were good together, which is probably why the marriage only lasted eighteen months after a three-year courtship.) Emily's departure had been near-catastrophic, filled with tears and distress — Alex wants to leave the way she'd entered, with little to no fanfare and a fairly clean slate (relatively speaking).

"I'm still going to be consulting, you know that, right?" He'd been lost in thought, a pensive look on his face with an almost-wry smile at some memory she wasn't yet privy to.

"What?"

"I may not be an agent anymore, but my history with the Bureau, the unit, puts me in a good position to consult. I mean, it's not like we're stuck in the nineties anymore — I had a Skype relationship with my husband for the better part of—well almost a decade, I'm sure the FBI has the technology to let people work across state lines."

"So you're _not_ leaving us linguistic plebs in the dust?"

"God no, what would you guys do without me?"

He thinks a moment, is tempted to laugh it off, but really, he has no idea. "You came in here so easily — yeah, there was a bit of friction with Penelope but, well, she protects her people and didn't know you yet." Alex laughs (actually, it's closer to a giggle, but he won't hold it against her.) "I'm honestly not sure if we'll ever be able to find someone who'll fit with the team as well as you did."

"Yeah, I'm pretty irreplaceable."

He leans forward and she takes his cue, _clink_ing his glass.

"I'm gonna miss you, Alex." He's completely sincere and if it was twenty years ago she'd shoot him a glare and maybe even swiftly turn on her heel and charge out of his office, but it's not, as big of a jackass as David Rossi may be, he also cares for his people — his team, his family — more than he does for himself, more than anyone would think he could.

"I'm gonna miss you too, Dave."

They both down the remainders of their glasses and he pours another round. By the time they leave the bottle's over half empty and she's looked over more than a few of his case files, leaving as-sloppy-as-Alex-Blake-gets-sloppy annotations and comments on post-its scattered through the pages (she apologises and tells him her flight isn't until one-pm, for any cryptology needs), and finishes off the crosswords from the couple of Posts he's got laying around. Even intoxicated her intellect puts the fear of God into him — five minutes with Reid and you get a pretty good idea of the expanse of his knowledge, she conceals it well, almost like a party trick — since a couple of those have been there for over a week. He's only now realising she could have been tutoring him in this stuff for two years (and that she'd probably already done those at home. Still, to be able to remember them in this state… she's good).

Neither is sure of the time when they meander relatively unharmed out of the BAU. Alex leave notes on the team's desks (a handful of 'x's on JJ and Penelope's, because as professional as Alex Blake may be, she had an incredible soft spot for the both of them. Plus she's a little drunk which usually translates as overly-affectionate), the usual _I'll miss you_, and all that, but a _CALL ME_ in big, block letters on Reid's, along with the time of her flight so he knows when she's not going to answer.

They stumble into the cab, Dave refusing to let her get her own — she's capable of handling herself, of course, but he'll die before he let's one of his team (_his girls_, is the first thought, but he pushes it down before he gets a good welt in the arm for it) go home drunk.

(And maybe he wants to meet James, too.)

He does the right thing and walks her to her door. They're greeted with a sleepy-eyed, track-pants-and-UCSF-shirt-ed James. She falls into him (they may have kept drinking in the cab) and moans languidly into her husband's chest. It's a brief introduction, but he knows she's in good hands (that are banded around her as if he's never going to let her go). He can hear her laugh low and throaty behind the locked door before he ambles back down the path, making sure to catch the cabbie's eye.

Losing Alex is going to be painful as hell, but he know's she's making the right decision — but then again, he doesn't need to tell her that.


End file.
